Flying Saucer or Food?

The next session of Granny Camp is about to begin, and we couldn’t be more excited. Solomon is planning to make some pizza; Kathleen is going to cook a dinner with me. Caleb will try to eat and sleep at our pond with a fishing rod in his hand, while his brother Max goes along for the adventure. We’re hoping the kids will go gold panning; maybe they’ll find gold in our creek, in addition to the worms they find on its banks. Richard spent the day shopping for food and fishing gear while I got the RV guest-ready; and to avoid inviting viral interludes, password protected our a computer. It is only prudent with a visiting teenage brood.

At this time of year, we quite often have to split our labors into inside and outside duties. I’ve put up over a dozen jars of plum jam from Jack’s gift, while Richard worked on completing the step replacement project he and John had begun. This plum jam is not the color of plums; but it is a gorgeous garnet. I do love making jewel-colored jams.

Along with getting the tomato cages staked against future storms, Richard brought home a bucket of beans, more yellow squash, tomatoes, and zucchini, and a surprise of a beautiful unblemished fluted-edge white squash about which I know nothing. We planted yellow squash where this came up, so we don’t even know how it got into our garden. Richard described it as a flying saucer; I think it looks more like a decorative throw pillow for a doll’s bed. If anyone knows anything about flying saucer squash, I’d love to learn about it.

Mamie makes extra-crisp pickles, soaking her cucumbers in lime before canning. I stayed home to begin this two-day process with the two gallons of cucumbers from our refrigerator. We’ll need all the refrigerator space we can get with two new cooks coming to our kitchen.

When asked about special requests for food or fun, our niece Ginette said that her children wanted pancakes or waffles and daily trips to swim at Indian Boundary Beach. One of them requested roast beef, which will be the dinner that awaits them on their arrival. Ginette is looking forward to Mamie’s garden and all the fresh veggies she can carry. I hope she likes stringing beans because there’s always work waiting after the harvest.

It’s hard to pack all the activities into just three days of Granny Camp. We have new multi-colored flower pots for dishing up ice cream sundaes, and a bowl of blue Jello for Gummi Fish fishing. There are ghost stories to tell around a campfire, and hide and seek in the dark. We even have a pair of night-vision goggles to lend the littlest child who is “it.”

The pace is so lively while the kids are here that I feel like we’ve been riding motor bikes on the Dragon’s Tale after they leave. It takes me a while to regain my balance.

Garden Pest Pas de Deux

While the deer have departed
From our garden salad bar
(Perhaps they found for themselves
A tastier garden plot),
Squash bugs feast on our squash plants;
Bean beetles ingest our beans;
Spud bugs feast on foliage;
Worms work on cabbage-leaf lace.

The chickens have lately found
That cucumbers are tasty,
While foraging in our garden
For their free-range food.
What should have been our allies
In our war on insects
Have now become another
Invading horde to feed.

Who do you suppose will win the spoils of this --
Our garden pest pas de deux?

Weather Weakness

We were certain that we’d done something wrong; why else would our corn lie down on the job? We went over to Mamie’s shortly after sunrise to see about resetting it before Mamie saw the devastation. We knew that we hadn’t mounded our rows enough, and we couldn’t face her just then.

As I held each stalk straight, Richard trenched between the rows, gathering mud to build a support mound around each individual plant. Because the soil is heavy in clay, it stuck to the shovel like half-set cement. Most times Richard could release only half of each shovelful meant for the mound. The remainder went back with his next dip in the dirt. He could barely move his feet, as the clay had created lifts on the bottoms of his shoes. He commented that he felt like he was walking on stilts.

I had worn my Western-style boots, and even these were in danger of being lost in a trench through the sucking power of wet clay. It was treacherous enough finding firm footing in the holes that Richard had carved out between the rows. It was made much more interesting by not knowing whether my boot was going to stay in a hole when I attempted to step out.

Mountain Mama had already told me that she was concerned that the lack of rain may have adversely affected the quality we could expect from the corn at a critical stage in its growth, so I worried that Richard was breaking his back for nothing. After each row, I offered to just call it quits with growing the corn, reminding Richard that we had a second planting that still had potential. Even with his back aching, he insisted on continuing in our rescue efforts. What a sad stand of corn we left; the stalks that had been straight as tin soldiers was now bent-backed like old crones, but it was, at least, standing.

Mamie called to let us know that our beans had fallen in the storm, never once mentioning the state of our corn rows. She suggested that we come over and push the poles down deep into the dirt while it was still so slick from our recent rains. We knew right along that our poles were destined to collapse since the clay had been so hard every time we attempted planting them that they simply stood on top of the soil. It didn’t help that the corn had fallen onto the beans, but Mamie clearly didn’t notice the corn rows were amiss. She also suggested that we join her in eating a watermelon that had been given to her.

Over slices of cold watermelon, we discussed the corn. I suggested that next time we’d plant the seeds deeper; Mamie assured us that the seeds had been properly planted and the rows well-maintained. She agreed with Richard’s theory that the lack of rain had simply kept the roots too shallow. It was almost soothing to know that the weather was our weakness.

A Gruesome Glimpse of Our Garden

Mamie’s fond of saying that anyone who doesn’t believe in gambling shouldn’t garden. This year, that’s an understatement. If Richard and I had any sense of superstition, we’d have long ago realized that we have horribly weird weather woes.

Now that we’ve watered our plants enough to stave off death, risking Mamie’s well pump in the process, the storms have moved in and fouled our fields. The corn which yesterday stood proudly reaching for heaven is now lying down in the dirt. The poles on which our green beans grew have become a bamboo mat with accents of leaves and beans.

Don’t you think we should have gotten a glimpse of the fact that weather isn’t our ally, when after being flooded out of our Louisiana home by a record-breaking hurricane; we brought to Tennessee a record-breaking drought that dried up our newly dug pond? One might wonder whether foolhardiness or faith led us to believe we could grow a garden.

We planted late because of too much spring rain, and once our seeds sprouted, we had to hand water. Just as the corn came onto the stalks higher than our heads we’re hit with super storms -- Is this a curse resulting from of my ambivalence about all the cooking and canning that gardening success would bring?

Who are we going to feed anyway? Mamie now eats like a bird, and I don’t mean by that she eats constantly; she says she’s lost her appetite for food. Lynda, the pastor of the Coker Creek church that contains a food pantry, only distributes fresh food once a month. County and community “feed the people” outreaches are governed by local board of health laws, and we don’t have an inspected kitchen for preparation. What possible reason could we have for continuing to grow more garden goods than the three of us (counting Mamie) can eat?

We both love to cook; I especially enjoy being given the challenge of turning a group of random ingredients into edible fare. What do infirm old folks on the mountain do for food if they have no family here? Maybe we could become cooks and drivers for “Meals on Wheels” in Coker Creek and leave the growing to the really good gardeners.

What would we do for fun if we didn’t grow a garden? We love to read; I love to write; I can even get exercise with Deborah and her debs. Richard has hobbies galore that give him a lot more sense of control than our recent gardening gaffs, and a house is a never-ending honey-do list. He and Gary have become fishing friends through their involvement in the Ruritan Club. And Christmas package preparation takes two months to complete.

I love hearing stories of other people’s pursuits; I hope to collect oral histories of Mamie, Jack, and other long-time Appalachian residents. I could continue to cultivate writers like Jack and Nancy, and might even use some of the time to tell my own tales.

Crazy For Canning

Didn’t want to exercise, but did go;
Because I like the women there, you know.
Gardening seems to me exercise enough,
But Deborah doesn’t believe my guff.
I did have at least one more good excuse --
The canning of several people’s produce.

Jack has just called us; his plums ripened and fell.
We will make plum jam, and grape jam, as well.
Mamie canned plum juice without adding jell.
What will it be? It’s too early to tell.
She can’t help herself; gifts from friends’ yards
Prompt her to can them. She says it’s not hard.

Some cans she will gift and some she will keep
I’m sure that Mamie could can in her sleep.
Her basement is too full of her bounty;
But she can’t sell it, so says the county.
In times past, there were community mills
For grains and wood from the Coker Creeks hills.

It would be nice to share knowledge and food
Sharing the cleaning would also be good.
We’d be sure to have giggles and guffaws
As each of us shared our strengths and our flaws
An approved kitchen would be just the thing;
There we could process whatever folks bring.

Rain Again

It has rained again;
Now is a good time
To can all the fruits
Of the many vines.

Tomorrow’s picking
Will be bigger yet,
Now that the soil
Has gotten so wet.

Weeds will poke up
Their intrusive heads;
The only good weeds
Are those that are dead.

We will weed and pick,
And come home with more
Fresh vegetables
To cook -- and to store.

Creating Casseroles

What does one do with forty-four cups of sliced squash? We turned half of it into several main dish casseroles, adapting a recipe that Donna gave me for Vidalia onion pudding that got rave reviews at our most recent First Friday supper.

We didn’t grow any Vidalias, so Richard harvested and sliced some of our white and yellow onions, along with making julienne strips out of a couple of bell peppers. It all sounds so healthy, so far. What could be better for us than squash, onions and peppers? Just wait; this is a main dish, after all.

To each eight cups of vegetables, I added two cups of julienned ham, two cups of heavy cream, two eggs, a bit of flour and baking powder, and a half cup of Asiago (like Parmesan) cheese. Once it bubbled and browned, we served it to Charlie and Deborah’s Bluegrass buddies, in addition to others. Adam had just retrieved Josie from the hospital, so one small casserole went to feed them; a meatless version was for Deborah’s dining pleasure; and two very large casseroles were created for potluck suppers, one for the Bluegrass group. I thought it was delicious, but it may have seemed a little exotic for some of the folks. We’ll see how it goes with another group before deciding whether it’s a keeper recipe.

I still have twenty-two cups of squash, if you don’t include the unsliced crooknecks in the refrigerator. I shudder to think what’s now on the plants, waiting to be picked after our recent rain. Mamie keeps informing me that I need to put a little bit of poison at the base of each squash plant to ward off cut worms killing our plants, but I’m not sure that a few garden fatalities would be altogether bad. What were we thinking when we planted a whole row of each addition to the garden?

Our freezer is still full of last year’s bounty, so I’ve promised Richard a vat of vegetable soup; but who else will want to eat soup in the summer? This will give me something else to store. I have enough frozen basil from Market Mary to make pesto for all of Italy, but this can’t be safely canned. Does it make sense to add volume to what’s already in the freezer by making readily edible products that can’t be stored under our bed? Have I even informed you that we still have butternut squash from last summer, and that our potatoes already need pulling up?

Becoming strict vegetarians may be the best course of action; I assume it would take huge quantities of vegetables to consume enough calories to fuel us all summer. If we joined the raw foods movement we could eat like wild hogs, foraging for food with the garden as a buffet line -- no knife, no fork, no cooking or cleaning. Jack eats his veggies right out of the earth, and he’s as healthy as a horse; he keeps his weight down, too.